


Time is what keeps the light from reaching us

by acaramelmacchiato



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Shenanigans, and then he went to GW and went into politics, au - steve survived his plane crash, but then this is the Cold War, diplomatic summits are essentially vegas, dorky spy assignments like "break into their suitcases and photograph their secret plans", flirting is a nonessential spy skill, primarily gen, so now he's at SALT I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:39:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/pseuds/acaramelmacchiato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A victim of Kosygin's 1965 economic reforms, the Winter Soldier goes on a mission to SALT I armed only with the half-baked plan to flirt with some American who keeps giving him the eye. It doesn't go particularly well. (An expanded scene from a bigger fic of mine where Steve is some kind of politics bigshot)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time is what keeps the light from reaching us

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this scene as a flashback to go into "All is for the best in the best of all possible worlds" -- then it was getting a little hefty and derpy and I thought, break that sucker out. Reading of the other thing is not required, I think it just stands on the assumption that Steve survived his plane crash and started working for the DOS after the war.

 

Before the Winter Soldier travels to Helsinki, he is subjected to a meeting about his budget.

“We are already sending,” says the representative from the Kremlin, “our entire legitimate delegation, and very likely will have to send them again to Vienna. We are authorizing simultaneous full-scale operations to recruit among the American delegation, and European press. And then there is Cuba. Additionally, we have more residents to support abroad than this time last year.”

“This is very frank,” the Winter Soldier observes. “But the impact on my operation is only peripheral.”

The representative glares and continues, putting his glasses on one-handed to read from his folio: “And this -- this request -- lodging, transportation, access to an M-21 rifle with a Leupold scope and a folding bipod -- all of this is foreign made, by the way -- a night vision scope -- what will you be shooting at night, when you should be shooting nothing? -- a compact camera, a long-range camera, two complete sets of diplomatic credentials, a driver, a week’s worth of wardrobing, fastroping equipment, grappling hooks, wall pulleys, a professional haircut, pocket money, phenacyl chloride in an aerosol container, toiletries, a Finnish handgun license, I have the authority to speak for the Ministry of Finance; we cannot approve this.”

The Winter Soldier looks across the table. “So the operation is cancelled.”

“Not cancelled. We’re cutting your budget to something less extravagant.”

“Extravagant.”

“I’m recommending approval for transportation and lodging. You’ll be issued diplomatic credentials from the Soviet Union, for building access only, and eight hundred markka.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

 

* * *

 

So shortly thereafter the Winter Soldier finds himself at a bar in Helsinki, wearing the same suit for the second day in a row, watching the American delegation trickle out.

One of the diplomats is staring at him, like he is the ghost of Banquo or his hair is on fire. The Winter Soldier wonders briefly if he’s been made, which is ridiculous, they are at a diplomatic summit, he would have to do something much more drastic than sit on a barstool to incite any consequences, and there, the man leaves with his friends.

Then a second later he’s walking back in. The Winter Soldier turns, and catches the full brunt of a very direct stare. The man’s eyes are very blue, and very confused.

“Hi?” the man asks.

It’s Captain Steve Rogers, Department of Defense, former director of the ACDA. He’s around his forties, with dense blond hair, dark in places and faintly gray in others. A very handsome person, his body and features symmetrical and proportional in every detail.

“Are you asking a question?”

“No,” Rogers laughs, and runs a hand through his hair. Someone like this should be very used to being liked, and his humility is engaging. “Sorry, sorry. Long day. You know. Uncomfortable chairs, lots of talking, stuck in Helsinki.”

“Okay,” says the Winter Soldier. “Do I know you?”

Then he makes an effort to dial back the hostility. His line of work generally takes place at remoter distances, in the dark, with his choice of firearms. But in this instance he has nothing more than a plane ticket to Moscow, an aging tactical handgun, and a fighting knife. Better not dismiss the human element so quickly.

“Do you?” Rogers sounds a little forlorn.

“Sorry, no,” the Winter Soldier shrugs and laughs a little to put Rogers at ease. “But maybe I’m wrong? Not excellent with faces, then, I don’t know many Americans,” which are both directly untrue.

Rogers looks at him with a faint expression of surprise, or disbelief. “My fault, probably. You just look very familiar -- you know, confusingly, uhm, familiar,” he shakes his head, possibly to shut himself up. “What are you drinking?” he asks.

“After this? Nothing,” says the Winter Soldier. “Not adequately furnished with the local currency, for the first thing. And it’s late.”

“Yeah,” says Rogers, and checks his wrist. There is no watch on it, and he looks around for a clock in the bar. “Another doozy tomorrow. And I hear we won’t wrap up. Maybe in Vienna, huh?”

“Maybe in Vienna,” says the Winter Soldier.

 

* * *

 

 

In Vienna, the delegations are welcomed with tickets to _Der Freischütz_ at the Wiener Staatsoper.

The performance puts the Winter Soldier in a dark mood, thinking of his renewed request for 7.62×51 cartridges, which had been denied. The opera is well-chosen for a sniper with limited access to equipment.

The things people will do for a few decent bullets; he sympathizes.

And then he catches sight of Captain Steve Rogers nodding off in his seat. There’s more than one way to skin a cat, he thinks, and after all he is on a _budget._

Cheap intelligence is cheaply obtained.

 The curtain comes down on the first act and the Winter Soldier follows Rogers out.

He taps the American diplomat on the shoulder.

“Hi?” he says, with a smile that he is certain is inviting. Rogers whips around, and it takes a second for the look of shock on his face to fade into a friendly greeting.

“Hi yourself,” says Rogers, with real pleasure. “How about this opera, right? The guy with the gun and the other guy with the other gun and … then there was a long portion where I was napping, but what did you think?”

“I don’t have an opinion,” says the Winter Soldier. “If it’s meant politically, I’m not impressed, and if it’s not meant politically, what a waste.”

Rogers laughs. “I would have bet you’d think something like that. Is that a weird thing to say?”

The Winter Soldier just smiles, thinking, what is wrong with this guy. Then, time to make friends.

He takes out the flask from the pocket inside his suit jacket, careful to keep his gun hidden, and raises his eyebrows at Rogers. “The line is a little much, and it’s mostly champagne,” he explains, and takes a sip.

Rogers takes a drink and coughs. “What is this?”

The Winter Soldier shrugs. “Siwucha, let’s say. I don’t know, I’m not picky.”

“Holy cow,” Rogers chokes. “I think I’m going blind.”

“You’re not.”

“Who said that?” Rogers flails around with his hands, pretending to search for the voice. “Where are you?”

The Winter Soldier rolls his eyes. This is groundwork, he thinks. Time up front. He takes his flask back and swallows a long mouthful.

“So, Vienna is kind of a commute after Helsinki, right?” Rogers says, still coughing.

The Winter Soldier shrugs. “I’ll let you in on a secret. From Moscow, everything is a commute.”

Rogers laughs. “I feel just the same way about Washington -- particularly now that we keep having these things in Europe.”

People are filtering back.

“Uh oh,” says Rogers. “Fingers crossed they sew it up after this act, right? Hey, there’s an empty seat next to mine. You could visit.”

Time up front, thinks the Winter Soldier.

“Sure,” he says, and follows Rogers in. The seats are a little better, he wonders if the American diplomats are on a whole better off here.

“Sorry if I seemed ungrateful,” says Rogers, once the lights are down. “Thanks for the hooch.”

“Actually,” says the Winter Soldier. The orchestra’s started and it’s time to cut to the chase. “Let’s leave.”

“Go? Why?”

“It’s uncivilized to talk with the curtain up.”

Rogers shrugs and makes an ‘after you’ gesture to the aisle.

“So who is it you keep thinking I am?” the Winter Soldier asks once they are outside, on the Operngasse. It’s a warm night, but with a cool fog and evidence that there had been rain sometime during the first act.

“A friend,” says Rogers, putting his hands in his pockets. “From back home. Roommate. He, uhm, he died, though, during the war.”

“Sorry,” says the Winter Soldier. “I’d remember dying during the war. And waking up Russian.”

Rogers looks at him, perfect eyebrows coming together, and then laughs and kicks at the sidewalk. “Yeah,” he says. “And anyway Bucky was no diplomat. Kind of a shoot first, no questions guy.”

“Maybe he had the right idea,” says the Winter Soldier, with complete honesty. Then: “We should go to your hotel.”

Steve’s eyebrows hike up into his hair. “My, uhm, my room?”

“Mine is miserable. Which way?”

They’re in darkness, now, between streetlamps across from the Resselpark, emptied during the rain. The Winter Soldier puts his hand lightly on Rogers’ hip, thinking, let’s get on with it. But Rogers is still wearing an expression like he is in the middle of an asthma attack, and has stopped moving. The Winter Soldier moves his fingers along Rogers’ waist and up his chest. They are kissing one another fully on the mouth before Rogers angles his head away and talks.

“Mrhhm,” he says. “Are you … seducing me?”

“Am I _what?”_ says the Winter Soldier. His hand is still at Rogers’ jaw, now, thumb against the very faint stubble that indicates what a long day it’s been since morning.

“I mean,” Rogers takes a step back. “Are you trying? I’m married.”

He points to his wedding ring, holding it up like a cross to a vampire. Like he’s not responsible for his actions just a second ago.

“This is a diplomatic summit. By definition, all previous commitments have become discretionary.”

“This is my fault,” says Rogers, miserably, backing away where the Winter Soldier can’t touch him.

“It damn well is,” says the Winter Soldier, with heat. His whole day, wasted on this stupid project. If Rogers hadn’t been a diplomat his body would be cooling on a park bench, still could be, make it an accident, but then the summit would end abruptly and he’d spend the next three _years_ mopping up in Cuba.

Rogers talks in a few circles: “I’m really sorry. You’re not bad at this, you were doing a great job. You should try anyone else. It’s just -- there’s just my wife, you know, and I _love_ Peggy -- but I wanted to… look at you? Talk? Pretend that -- you look _just like him_ ," his voice cracks on that one, but he ploughs through. "I know that doesn’t mean anything. And if he’d asked…” Rogers puts his face in his hands. He draws them down with a shuddery sigh, pulling at his bottom eyelids. “Look. I’m sorry.”

The Winter Soldier narrows his eyes, seizing on one part of that monologue. “What do you mean, not bad at this?”

“Spy stuff,” says Rogers. Then his eyes go wide. “Was I not supposed to say that?”

There is a long minute of silence, and someone goes by on a motorcycle.

“This is fucking unbelievable,” says the Winter Soldier, and draws his gun.

Brezhnev himself has forbidden the use of lethal force against legitimately credentialed diplomats. And Rogers seems amenable to some intelligence understanding, provided no one ever touches him -- that could have its uses. So he gives the gun a frustrated shake and turns his back on Rogers.

That night he breaks into Alexander Haig’s hotel room without grappling hooks, which takes six times as long, and photocopies everything he finds. By the time he’s finished, Haig has come in, taken a shower, changed and fallen asleep, and he's lost hours hiding upright in a closet. It takes him until morning, and he’s on a flight back to Moscow by noon.

He never mentions the incident to anyone, filing it as informative and a warning against putting budgetary concerns before operational surety. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Technology will have progressed each time they defrost the Winter Soldier, so he probably needs to be furnished with spy crap anew each time. Shenanigans! 
> 
> 2\. They should have sprung for the haircut
> 
> 3\. God wouldn't it be funny if diplomatic summits actually were spring break
> 
> 4\. I think I'm presuming a lot of ambient political knowledge, whereas it's much more likely the Winter Soldier would wake up knowing who to shoot, do it, and the rest is NTK. I also keep imagining boring spy stuff like looking at secret paperwork, which you probably wouldn't waste your perfect assassin on. 
> 
> 5\. This is so needless but I was going to put them in Fidelio until I found out that Der Freischütz actually was at the Wiener Staatsoper in May of 1971. And it's conveniently about a sharpshooter making a deal with the devil for magic bullets so, #closetohome
> 
> 6\. I don't know why the idea of Winter Soldier Bucky being total pants at sexy spycraft stuff is so funny to me, but it is, it just is. Like, what was the next part of his plan here??
> 
> 7\. Title from Eckhart, for some reason.


End file.
